All Over Again
by bauble123
Summary: Johnlock/trans (ftm) Sherlock/AU When they were kids, Sherlock and John were friends. They even 'dated' in junior school. But they drifted apart as they grew older, hardly saw one another as teenagers. And of course, that was when Sherlock was female. Now male, he's indecisive at a school reunion, when John comes over...and recognises his old friend. PLUS never-seen-before cases!
1. One: reunion

John, bored, had left the game of tag that had been going on and made his way over to the edge of the pitch. He picked up a stick and inspected it, holding it experimentally in one hand. It had a little stubby but that stuck out, and he thought it looked a bit like a gun. Impressed, he slid it into his belt loop. He was just feeling quite proud of the way it looked when Sherlock walked over. She was only eight, compared to his ten, the youngest in the year, and their parents were friends.

"What're you doing?" she asked, cocking her head on one side and looking quizzically at the stick.

"Nothing." he replied, instinctively.

"'Kay," she said. "What's that?" She pointed to the stick stuck in the belt loop of his grey school trousers.

"It's a gun, duh. My gun." he said, as if it were obvious.

"Oh, right." she said. "What do you need a gun for?"

"'Cause I'm a cowboy, of course. It's so's I can shoot robbers and thieves and brigands and stuff. People who steal from the – the bank, or try to kidnap girls. Like this." He pulled the stick from his side and hefted it like a gun, pulling it round in circles and making shooting noises.

She twirled a curl of hair, the colour of dark chocolate, round her finger and pursed her mouth pertly. "Would you save me – you know, if someone tried to kidnap me."

"Course I would." he said, and grinned.

They'd been friends for years, each other's sole companions at events where all their parents' friends' children were older than them – between Harry and Mycroft age, and there was no-one else for them to play with. Later, in year six, they went out for a term or so, in that silly way you do when you're young – when 'dating' means hanging around together at break and giving each other chocolate bars and maybe going to the cinema once or twice.

Come secondary school they sort of drifted apart. John became popular, sporty and friendly as he was, and had a huge crowd of friends. He was part of the popular crowd, one of those easy-going members who would be surprised if you called them popular to their face. Sherlock became a rather solitary sort of person, not getting on with most of the girls in her year, who were the people she was expected to go around with. She found them tedious, with all their hair and makeup and nails and boy-talk. Not that she wasn't interested in boys, because she was, very interested, but in a different sort of way.

And then John joined the army, and discovered that men were as interesting as women to him romantically, and Sherlock went away to London, and met with cosmopolitan society and different sexualities and genders, and discovered that she could be the person she wanted to be, which was, it transpired, not a she but a he. This new Sherlock was no different from the old, no. He was just the person he had always been to himself. Sure, he had scars on his chest (eventually, though it took him a while to save up for the surgery, during which time he introduced himself as male and identified as such, and was that, to all intents and purposes, but mostly wore bulky clothing to cover up what he knew many would see as proof that he was not really what he claimed to be).

When they were in their thirties, and John had just been invalided out of the army with a gun-wound to the shoulder and a psychosomatic limp, their secondary school held a reunion. John didn't really feel a burning desire to go, but thought he might as well, if just for something to do. John took the train back home, and after taking the bus to his little hometown, felt that he was somehow on unfamiliar ground. The place where he had grown up had carried on growing, and he had, too, but in opposite directions. The old video rental store had become a deli, he noted as he went past where it should have been, and the old Woolworth's had become a little Co-op.

The school, though, was the same as ever. Arriving at the back gate, just like he always had on his way to school, John felt overwhelmed with nostalgia. It smelled the same, and there was the same old rust on the cross-hatch pattern of the fencing. The same trees grew in the weird little strip of foliage behind the old sheds, the same crisp packets and chocolate wrappers slowly discolouring around their roots. He felt as if nothing but him had changed, like this place was out of time. It was then that he heard a sound.

He turned, to see the figure of a man, tall but probably about his own age, pacing up and down, his back to John. "I can go in," the man muttered under his breath. "I _can _go in. Oh no, hell, I can't… I can't… I can, I can't… Oh, _fuck_."

John decided to intervene. No-one should be left to their demons. He stepped efficiently over. "Um, hey? You seem to be in a bit of turmoil. Perhaps I could lend a hand…" The man turned, and flushed a bright red, skittering backwards like a frightened deer, jumper slipping from one slender shoulder. John's face stung with shock and recognition. This was certainly a man, but the thin, sharp face with its high cheekbones, dark soulful eyes and sculpted nose, surrounded by curling tousled curls of dark hair, was bruisingly familiar. "God, Sherlock!" he exclaimed, his own cheeks turning ruddy. He pulled a hand through his pale blonde hair, an exasperated expression flitting over his face. "Oh fuck…" he murmured.

"J-John?" Sherlock said, worriedly. "Look, I know I'm…different, these days, but it doesn't change our friendship and…" He sounded as if he were reciting from a script. "I'm still me. I'm still Sherlock Holmes."

"I know. Shit, Sherlock, that's the bloody problem." John said, looking at Sherlock with a my-god-would-you-look-at-that sort of smile on his face.

"What do you mean?"

"I was going to hit on you, was what I mean, because I didn't recognise me. But you're _Sherlock._ God, I nearly hit on a childhood friend."

"Well," Sherlock said, a small smile playing on his lips. "That doesn't mean you have to stop."

"You what?"

"I said, John, that that doesn't mean you have to stop

"You mean you don't mind me hitting on you?"

"Yes, John. Didn't I just make that clear?"

John grinned. This was the Sherlock he knew – needle sharp, easily irritated and – he was surprised to find himself thinking it, since he hadn't thought it since year six – cute. Very cute. "So are you, um, going in?" he asked.

"I might be. I don't know… I mean, they all knew me as a girl, John, and not everyone is as apparently accepting on sight as you are." John gave a rueful smile at this. "I mean, I just don't know how they'll take it. It's not like any of them know about how I've changed. Hell, even my parents don't know – at least, unless Myc's told them, which I wouldn't put past him. How do you tell people about something like that?"

"Well, you told me pretty well." John paused. "Sort of sounded a bit rehearsed, though."

Sherlock blushed, shuffling his feet. "Yeah… I wrote it out last night, practised it for a bit. Tell you the truth, you were mostly the person I was worried about. I mean, it's not like I had many friends in school."

"No, you always were a bit of a loner. What says we go in together, though?" John suggested. And that was what they did. It worked out all right. There were a couple of people who laughed and made lewd comments, but they were silenced by glares from the majority. Sherlock found he actually enjoyed himself, standing beside John as the other reminisced about all the fun things he'd done as a kid.

When it finished, they discovered they were both taking the same train back to London, so they boarded it and sat together, watching rain trickle down the windows and sipping too-hot coffee from the station café, which was one of those places that weren't actually Costas but 'proudly served' Costa coffee.

"So, how've you been, then?" Sherlock asked.

"Pretty okay."

"Did you ever become an army doctor like you used to want to?"

"Uh-huh. Medical degree, army training, two years at a ground hospital in Irac, three more on patrol in Afghanistan."

"That's a lot."

"Yeah. I've seen some things. I was invalided out, though."

"I thought as much." Sherlock said. "Shoulder wound – gun?" John nodded. "Yes. Hand tremors." John nodded again, surprised. "And a limp – psychosomatic, though you refuse to believe it. How come you didn't bring your cane?"

"What in the hell, Sherlock? How do you know all that?" John said, surprised and interested.

"Deduction." Sherlock said, sipping his coffee. "Plain and simple. That's what I'm doing these days – freelance detective work." He sighed. "Trouble is, my flat's been let over my head and I can't afford anywhere else unless I find someone to share with, and I can't find anyone."

"Well," John said, biting his lip a bit. "I need someone to flat-share with, really. I mean, maybe we could…"

"Share a flat? Sure. I have a place in mind – we can get it cheap. Landlady owes me a favour."

"Oh?"

"I helped her out when her husband got put on Death Row in America."

"What, got him off, you mean?"

"No. I made sure he was executed."

John smiled wonderingly at his friend. "On another note," he said. "I feel like we ought to talk about you. I mean….when did you realise you…weren't female?"

"Well, I think I always knew, really. I just denied it a lot. I mean, I never liked wearing dresses, or doing these supposedly 'girly' things – you know, makeup and shit. And I never felt like I was myself. I just felt a bit lost, wandering. I didn't understand it until I came to London, and met trans people and found out about different genders and stuff. I worked it out then, and saved up for the treatment."

"So you've…had it done?" John said, tentatively.

"Yeah. I mean, I wasn't sure I wanted to for a while. My gender was just as legitimate when I hadn't had it done, but I wanted to go one step further. It was a personal thing, so I saved up, and got it."

"And…you're gay?"

"I could reciprocate that question in your direction, John."

"Heh…I guess you could." John agreed, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly and looking down at his coffee cup, a sheepish smile on his face. "Well, you know, I guess I realised it at uni. That was when I found out about different sexualities. And anyway," he added, a little triumph in his voice at having got the upper hand. "I'm not actually _gay_, I'm bi."

"Well met, Dr Watson." Sherlock said, smiling. "And yes, I'm gay. Not that it matters."

"Course it doesn't." John paused. "It just means maybe I have a chance."

Sherlock smiled, cheeks tinged with a sunset pink. "So what're you doing post-army?" he asked, to change the subject.

"I was thinking of maybe getting to work back in medicine, perhaps as a GP. In a bit, I mean."

"As these things stand, John," said Sherlock, tone suddenly serious. "You wouldn't be averse to maybe giving me a hand when it came to cases, would you? Inspecting the body and all."

"Sure, I mean, if you need me… I-I'd love to." John's face broke into a sunshine grin.

"Then it's a deal." The train was drawing into the station. Sherlock stood up. "Meet you tomorrow – 221B, Baker Street. Will you remember."

"I think so – 221B Baker Street." John repeated.

"Well done." Sherlock said, and gave John a swift peck on the cheek, before vanishing into the crowds of Paddington. Well, thought John, at least I've got something to look to now.


	2. Two: domesticity

Notes:

Thanks for all the support, but for those coming from the genderbent adventures community, I'd just like to point out that this isn't actually genderbending really :) I believe Sherlock Holmes is canonically trans.

For my non-English/badly informed readers, Radio 4 is my favourite radio station. **R4 mostly caters to old people.** It's talk based radio, which varies between, news programmes, money programmes, economics programmes, famous people programmes, history programmes, science programmed, comedy, drama...and everything else you can imagine. **The Archers is a long-running soap-opera** set in a rural village. Tom and Kirsty were too characters who were supposed to be getting married but Tom left her at the altar, which is A) out of character, and B) way too dramatic for the realistic programme. They lost a lot of listeners, since everything's getting more dramatic. A certain MP complained.

MP means member of parliament, and one _was_ recently caught playing Candy Crush.

**Cabin Pressure is an R4 sitcom about a very small airline, starring Benedict Cumberbatch** as Martin Crieff, the pilot who learned the manual and agreed to not being paid in return for being the captain of the plane. It's extremely funny and well-written, and Ben C is great in it. I recommend listening.

**The current case is based upon a real case** where an intelligence agent's body was found naked, zipped up in a bag in his bath. They concluded he 'probably zipped himself in there'. It remains mostly unsolved. Here's a link to the case. (opens in new window) The man's name was Gareth Williams. I mean no disrespect to his memory nor do I seek to claim this as entirely fiction. I heard about this case from Radio 4 aged 13 and have remembered it to this day.

"Thanks," John said, handing a five pound note to the cab-driver, who tipped his cap and drove off. John could see Sherlock standing outside a building just across from him. Putting his cane briefly under one arm, John straightened out his coat and walked over, limping a little.

"You brought your cane this time, then?" Sherlock asked, raising an inquisitive eyebrow.

John nodded. "It's playing up today. Maybe I just don't like you – my subconscious explaining it." He smiled. "I only didn't bring it yesterday because I didn't want people to worry about me."

"I know." Sherlock replied, pertly, raising a hand and knocking on the door. There was a hurried scuffling sound from the other side of the door. After a moment it was opened by a small elderly woman with a head of tawny curls.

"Sherlock!" she cried, ushering them in. "And…?"

"Watson." I said. "John Watson." He intrinsically meant to add 'Doctor John Watson' but stopped himself.

"Oh, that's nice." the woman said. "Good to see you've got someone, Sherlock." She smiled warmly.

"Er, yes. Something like that. Do you still have that room to let, Mrs Hudson?" Sherlock said quickly.

"Yes of course – did you want to see it?" Sherlock nodded. "All right," she said, showing them up the stairs. "There's another room, of course, if you'll be wanting it. It's perfectly fine if you don't – we have all sorts round here; Mrs Turner next door has married ones."

"We will be needing the other room, I think, thanks." John said hurriedly.

"Yes, Hudders. We aren't…together. John and I are childhood friends."

"Oh." The landlady's face fell, and she looked a bit ashamed. "Right. Sorry – I oughtn't to assume things like that, a big fault of mine. It's just up here…" She led them up the stairs and unlocked the door. "I'll make you a cup of tea while you look around, mm?" And with that, she left, bustling back down to the kettle.

"Sherlock, what's all this stuff?" John asked, looking around at the riot of boxes covering the dusty interior of the flat.

"My things." Sherlock said, in a matter-of-fact tone. John stared.

"You've already – what? – moved in?"

"No. I simply took the liberty of bringing in my possessions."

"You've accumulated a lot of stuff." John commented, picking up a skull and brushing the dust from his head. "Who's this, Yorrick?"

"Friend of mine." Sherlock said, brusquely, rifling through a box of stuff.

"It is Yorrick, then?"

"John, no, I'm not Hamlet." Sherlock sighed, giving his friend a scathing look.

"Alas, poor Gary, I knew him well," John said, grinning and replacing the skull on the mantel piece. "Mind if I sit down? My leg…"

"Go ahead." Sherlock didn't turn around. John shrugged and, removing a few dust-covered books from its seat, sat in an armchair.

"This place is…nice. Pretty big and all. Especially for central London." he said, conversationally.

"Uh-huh." Sherlock wasn't really listening. "I kind of assumed that. I've signed all Hudders's papers."

"But she didn't-"

"No, I know, she didn't notice. She was making tea and telling me about her husband at the time. It was…what?, last week? Something like that."

"Right, I suppose I'd better sign them too." John said, resignedly, wondering what life with this madman might be like. It was at that moment when the door was pushed open and the landlady entered, smiling.

"I've made you a cup of tea," she said, coming over to John and handing it to him.

"Thanks. And I'll sign the papers - I reckon I don't have much choice in taking this place."

Mrs Hudson was leaving when John called after her, "Oh, and a biscuit wouldn't go amiss."

"I'm not your housekeeper, dear," she said, turning reproachfully back to him. "But just this one time."

She hadn't brought the biscuit before the police cars arrived, followed by Sherlock's glee and a greying Detective Inspector.

And the rest, I think you'll find, is history. Anyhow, John Watson and Sherlock Holmes became partners in crime (and indeed solving of said thing).

One scene I will rerun for you, however, as it really happened. While the television series made about them was correct in the majority of its aspects, it chose to rule out Sherlock and John's history, and Sherlock's former gender - which in some ways was rather nice, but also meant that certain scenes were shown inaccurately. One such case is the scene of John's first encounter with Mycroft. While the car journey and Anthea (who incidentally also goes by many other aliases, but has, upon retirement, revealed her real name to be Euphemia – which is reason enough for anyone to want to pretend their name was something nicer) are shown to truth, the meeting itself is not.

The warehouse was dark, and gave a strange impression of oil on water, slick and iridescent. A dark figure stood, leaning on an umbrella, and the girl who called herself Anthea stood back, still texting incessantly. A part of John suspected her of playing Candy Crush with the sound turned off, like that MP in the pensions meeting.

John took a step closer to the figure, who at closer inspection proved to be a man and who smiled like a wolf as John approached. "Ah, John," the figure said. "I hear you've set up shop with Sherlock Holmes. How nice for you, old friends reuniting and all that. Were you surprised at Sherlock's transition?"

"Well yes, I mean, I was a bit, but-" John stopped, squinting at the silhouette. "Hang on – _Mycroft_?"

"Ah, you recognised me. How is your sister, doing well, I presume?"

"Um, sort of. Harry always was the type to get herself into – hey! Stop changing the subject!" A light flickered on above them, and Mycroft continued to smile.

"So perceptive, John. Who would have thought it of the captain of the rugby team? Now, how would you like to spy on my brother for me? I've plenty of money on hand." He glanced meaningfully at Anthea.

"No." John said, flatly and loyally. Then he paused. "Mycroft, your own brother? Really? Is there no sense of privacy in the Holmes family?"

"Not really," Mycroft admitted. "I'm simply looking out for my baby brother."

"Oh, right." John's sarcasm levels rose considerably.

"I admire your loyalty, John. Will you be reprising your former relationship with Sherlock, I wonder?"

"What?"

"That little fling you had back at the end of primary school."

"What – no – maybe. I don't know, Mycroft. There've been…indications. But I never knew with Sherlock when we were small, and I have a feeling it's even more so now."

"Quite, John, quite. Shame I couldn't tempt you. Oh, and by the way, your limp _is _psychosomatic."

"I know. Sherlock said."

"And you trust him. I can see that. But your therapist's wrong, you know."

"What do you mean?"

"You're in a stressful situation now, John, and you're barely using that cane." Mycroft leaned forward and deftly plucked the thing from under John's arm. John remained stock still. "You see? You aren't plagued by the war, are you, John Watson? No… You miss it." And with that, the light above them flickered off, and Mycroft took a step backwards and melted into the dark. The girl – Anthea – took John's hand, and smiled at him, and led him back to the car, and that was that.

The few of Sherlock's cases shown in the television series constantly resurface, so I shall choose to tell you those unmentioned. You won't find these anywhere else. I'll begin with the case of the body in the sports bag. This is an interesting case, now. It has everything: intrigue, secrets, classified information, strange solutions, awful neighbours, nudity… Like I said, everything. It all began with a radio broadcast.

It was half past seven. John was already in the kitchen, eating a slice of toast spread with raspberry jam to a soundtrack of oldies songs from the small radio on the side. He had a book propped up against his plate, and from time to time he would reach across and sweep crumbs and bits of jam from the pages. He was just licking a bit of stray stickiness from his fingers when Sherlock entered, looking tired and dressed, as per usual, in his night-clothes. An untied dark blue dressing gown was slung about his slim form. He ran a hand through his hair and went, without speaking, over to the toaster and put in a crumpet.

"Morning," said John, turning a page and casting a glance in Sherlock's direction.

"Morning," Sherlock repeated, absently, making himself a cup of coffee. The spoon chinked against his cup as he stirred in the inordinate amounts of sugar with which he took it. The radio began to play The Beatles' _All You Need Is Love._ Sherlock glared at it. "What the hell is this, John?" he asked, angrily.

John looked up mildly, brushing crumbs from his book. "I thought I'd have some music on. I mean, what's the point in having a radio if we never use it?"

Sherlock made an annoyed little clucking sound and turned the tuning dial of the radio round. A crackling sound ensued, the sound equivalent of those black and white cut-up-newspaper pixels you get on a television when it's searching for a station. It was interspersed with bursts of speech or of song: a second of Schubert, a moment of the latest hits, an instant of a conversation on gardening. It was a while before he found what he had apparently been looking for. He smiled and settled back to butter his crumpet.

He had taken his second bite, melted butter dribbling down his chin, when John recognised the station. His book was shut with a snap, and turned to Sherlock, somehow managing to look shocked and amused and outraged all at once. "_Radio 4_, Sherlock, really?" he said.

"Yes, and your point is?"

"Nothing, nothing, I'm just saying that their listener-ship is mostly the over fifties. You know that, right?"

"Yes, and? I've listened to it since I was a child, John. I see no problem."

John smiled wonderingly. "You geniuses never cease to amaze me."

Sherlock replaced the crumpet briefly, licking a smidgen of butter from his finger with a long pink tongue. "The plural of genius is genii, John." he said, curtly, and proceeded to continue munching his way through his breakfast.

John laughed. "I bet you listen to The Archers and all." he added, one eyebrow raised, a grin spreading over his weathered face.

Sherlock gave him a disdainful glance, and wiped his fingers on his dressing-gown sleeve before picking up his coffee and primly sipping it. "No, not since Tom and Kirsty. The show hasn't been the same since – too much drama and too many voice replacements. I'm partial to a bit of Cabin Pressure, mind you."

"What, that programme about the pilots? The John thingummy one?"

"John Finnemore, John, and yes, that one."

"Who'd have thought it, Sherlock Holmes having a laugh for once." John said, and returned to his book, smoothing out the page he'd dog-eared. Sherlock sipped his coffee, listening to the radio. It was the Today programme – news, interviews with people and discussions of current affairs.

"The BBC News at Eight," proclaimed the voice of the news-reader from the radio speakers. The peeps sounded then, followed by the Greenwich chimes, which were faintly echoed by Big Ben across the way. "The prime-minister has announced sweeping cuts to the welfare budget, expected to hit thousands of homes hard this winter. The shadow chancellor has called it 'outrageous'.

"Experts warn that hundreds of people may be unable to pay their bills due to rising fuel prices. The government has pledged to do something to tackle this issue. Deaths from malaria are rising dramatically in North Africa. Aid workers are urging the government to take a stand.

"A man, believed to be an MI6 agent has been found zipped into a sports bag on the bed in his flat in East London. The police are treating the death as suspicious, but as yet have no witnesses in connection with the case.

"Ministers warn that the rapid increase in housing prices could cause an increase in stamp duty." There was a pause, and then the newsreader was replaced by another voice, who explained that they had a housing expert on the line and would be discussing the stamp duty increase presently.

Sherlock jumped up excitedly and switched off the radio. He then began to search things rapidly on his phone. John looked up briefly, but then ignored him – he was obviously in one of his feverish moods. After about five minutes, Sherlock grinned and hurried out of the room. John watched him go with a puzzled expression – what was it now?, he wondered. Some sort of case, probably. It usually was.

In a few minutes Sherlock returned, buttoning the sleeves of his shirt, a jacket slung over his arm. John looked at him, mildly bemused. "What's the matter?" he asked.

"Absolutely nothing – everything's just peachy." Sherlock said, happily, his face breaking into a grin of sheer joy. "The MI6 agent – the one in the bag – Gavin's got the case!"

"It's Greg, Sherlock, and I don't understand." John closed his book and looked up at his friend.

"He's in over his head, John. I know this kind of case. It's like a locked room murder, but less cliché and more intriguing. The police will cover it up, say he had an interest in bondage or something and he zipped himself in there. I say we get on down to Scotland Yard and give them a hand."

"All right," John said, standing and smiling in spite of himself. "You really shouldn't get so exuberant over death though, Sherlock. It's not ladylike."

"And that," said Sherlock, wryly. "Is why I'm no longer a lady. Now come on, let's go." He shrugged on his coat and was buttoning it up as he rushed down the stairs, taking them two steps at a time. John followed more slowly, slipping on his own jacket and watching his friend's retreating back, wondering if maybe, just maybe, he still stood a chance with Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
